Picture this: a locked glass door, a button that screams “STOP” (as if I didn’t know already—thanks), and a spontaneous choir of weary citizens. It was the perfect setup for a hero who didn’t know he was one: me, with a complaining knee and an unexpected dose of stubbornness.

First, a timid knock-knock. Nothing. Then a slightly bolder tap-tap. Still silence. And then something inside me lit up. It was as if the collective frustration had appointed me their official percussionist.

I unleashed my symphony: bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!
Ten glorious minutes later—after the Legendary Knockdown—the glass door opened.

People looked at me with a mix of awe and uncertainty.
Is this guy okay?

—Short answer: not really, but we’re making progress.

Inside wasn’t much better. In one corner, a bulletin board groaned under layers of bureaucratic relics: forms, impossible schedules, signs pointing nowhere. Behind the counter, the staff paced back and forth, clinging to steaming mugs as if coffee were more essential than oxygen.

Some nervous chuckles confirmed I wasn’t the only skeptic. But quick glances toward the counter made it clear—no one wanted to attract too much attention. Meanwhile, I kept exploring this absurd comedy of endless pauses.

Then he showed up.
A cocky man, full of himself, started talking. His words oozed condescension and casual sexism, directed at women with the confidence of someone who’s never been told to shut up.

Something strange clicked in my brain—like autopilot kicking in.

—Excuse me, but who gave you permission to be a spokesperson for the 1950s?

Silence fell like a heavy blanket. The man froze—as if someone had hit his pause button.

In a corner, a young woman stared at the floor, nervously fiddling with a crumpled piece of paper. I approached her with that absurd confidence that had brought me this far.

—Come on, cheer up. If I managed to open that door just by banging on it, you can definitely handle this queue.
Go now—before the coffee crew returns with reinforcements.

She looked up.
Hesitant smile. One small step forward. And the air shifted slightly.

Meanwhile, I made it to the legal advisor, who—after hearing my case—did what had seemed impossible: he moved my appointment forward.
Not without a warning:

—Please, don’t bang the door tomorrow.

I answered with an ironic smile and a theatrical shrug:

—Promise. But hey—if it works…

As I walked out, someone told me to look at the door from the outside. I did.
And for the first time, I didn’t see an obstacle—I saw a reminder.

It wasn’t the glass door that had changed. It was me.

Sometimes all it takes is sheer stubbornness. Because life is full of locked doors, cavemen, and endless coffee breaks.

Picture this: a locked glass door, a button that screams “STOP” (as if I didn’t know already—thanks), and a spontaneous choir of weary citizens. It was the perfect setup for a hero who didn’t know he was one: me, with a complaining knee and an unexpected dose of stubbornness.

First, a timid knock-knock. Nothing. Then a slightly bolder tap-tap. Still silence. And then something inside me lit up. It was as if the collective frustration had appointed me their official percussionist.

I unleashed my symphony: bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!
Ten glorious minutes later—after the Legendary Knockdown—the glass door opened.

People looked at me with a mix of awe and uncertainty.
Is this guy okay?

—Short answer: not really, but we’re making progress.

Inside wasn’t much better. In one corner, a bulletin board groaned under layers of bureaucratic relics: forms, impossible schedules, signs pointing nowhere. Behind the counter, the staff paced back and forth, clinging to steaming mugs as if coffee were more essential than oxygen.

Some nervous chuckles confirmed I wasn’t the only skeptic. But quick glances toward the counter made it clear—no one wanted to attract too much attention. Meanwhile, I kept exploring this absurd comedy of endless pauses.

Then he showed up.
A cocky man, full of himself, started talking. His words oozed condescension and casual sexism, directed at women with the confidence of someone who’s never been told to shut up.

Something strange clicked in my brain—like autopilot kicking in.

—Excuse me, but who gave you permission to be a spokesperson for the 1950s?

Silence fell like a heavy blanket. The man froze—as if someone had hit his pause button.

In a corner, a young woman stared at the floor, nervously fiddling with a crumpled piece of paper. I approached her with that absurd confidence that had brought me this far.

—Come on, cheer up. If I managed to open that door just by banging on it, you can definitely handle this queue.
Go now—before the coffee crew returns with reinforcements.

She looked up.
Hesitant smile. One small step forward. And the air shifted slightly.

Meanwhile, I made it to the legal advisor, who—after hearing my case—did what had seemed impossible: he moved my appointment forward.
Not without a warning:

—Please, don’t bang the door tomorrow.

I answered with an ironic smile and a theatrical shrug:

—Promise. But hey—if it works…

As I walked out, someone told me to look at the door from the outside. I did.
And for the first time, I didn’t see an obstacle—I saw a reminder.

It wasn’t the glass door that had changed. It was me.

Sometimes all it takes is sheer stubbornness. Because life is full of locked doors, cavemen, and endless coffee breaks.